2010+Misc.

Paste your misc. submissions here. Be sure to include the Title, Your Name, and the Body of the Piece. Leave space between each submission please.

Logger Notes for June 21, 2010 by Micki Fryhover

My name is Micki D. Fryhover.The D is for Danelle.Except I don’t like Danelle.I just like D and that’s all.I got picked to be the logger for June 21, 2010.Logger is the grown-up word for note-taker, but logger sounds more funner, I think.My teacher, Mrs. (she has another name—Nancy, I think, but I like Mrs. and that’s all). Mrs. says my logger job means I have to keep track of what we do today and what people say.That is a big job, I think.I hope I don’t mess up. We started with my friend Erin who readed us her logger notes from last week.She did a good job. I like that Erin girl.She’s funny and has pretty brown hair.Teralyn talked about a man called Roy Wenzl from the Wichita Eagle and she and Mrs. talked about getting that Roy guy to come talk to us. He sounds important, so I hope he comes! He’s a ‘porter at the Eagle. A ‘porter is a person who writes stories and puts them in the newspaper. He should come see us, ‘cause we are writers. Mrs. gave us shirts last week that say so. Mrs. got a little confused about what was happening this morning, but that’s okay.She said we would go to Plan B. Plan B. is what you do when you look at the wrong day on the calendar. My friend Karen volunteered to do her writing prompt early. I was going to volunteer, only guess what?That Karen beat me to it! Volunteer is the grown-up word for saying you’ll do something even when it’s not your turn and you really don’t have to.Mrs. told that Karen thank you, ‘cause Mrs. has good manners. Karen had a bunch of stuff that she put on the shelf for us to look at so we’d get ‘spired to write.She had a Hollister bag with a guy on it (he had no shirt and my friend April thought he was hot. Hot means nice to look at, I think.), a red velvet box (that’s the one I choosed!), some crummy old cell phones, a statue of a tall pretty lady with a baby, and a different statue from Mexico that was stone and scared me a little, but don’t tell Karen, ‘cause it might hurt her feelings. Mother tells me I’m not supposed to hurt people’s feelings.My friend Sandy came in while we were writing (she was late!), but we showed our manners and didn’t tease her. Mrs. told us earlier that Sandy had stayed up past her bedtime and slept too long this morning. Sandy was late on account she comes from Pratt and Pratt is very far away, I think. Mrs. asked us if we were ready to share our stories, but I didn’t get a chance to raise my hand first because that April got hers up first and said, “Me, me, me!”She wrote about the hot guy on the bag and said he had a chest she could wash clothes on and it was anti-cerebral, whatever that means. That April knows a lot of big words. She is very smart, I think. Adrienne read her story about the hot guy on the bag, too, but I think it was a different hot guy. She also said she woke up at the crack of noon, which means she slept in, I think. But not like that Sandy. She didn’t sleep in on purpose.Patrice wrote about the red velvet box, and I did too! Oh, and so did Rhonda and Mrs., but her red box had diamond earrings in them, not a broken heart like Rhonda’s. That Sandy wrote about the statue lady with a baby. Her story had a nice prayer in it. Dorothy wrote about the statue lady, too. But she likes to be called D.C. and that’s all. Her story had brick-a-brack in it. Brick-a-brack is a grown-up word for stuff you put on shelves and don’t get to touch, except when Mother isn’t looking.That Tim wrote about the statue lady, too and that April helped him read his poem. That April is a nice girl for helping Tim read his poem. He needed a helper on account his poem was supposed to have two readers instead of one. After we were done sharing, Karen talked about her things (‘member those things we looked at to get ‘spired by?) and ‘splained why she picked them, so it was like show and tell, only no one else got to show anything. But we did get to share, so I guess that’s okay. While Karen was talking, Mrs. got a phone call and came back in and talked about a bunch of people coming to her house. Mrs. also told us about the baby ducks that were stuck in the fountain water outside. A bunch of people had to go look at the duckies, only guess what? I didn’t go on account of the fact that where I live, there are a lot of duck families and I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. But they are super cute and fuzzy and so I guess I understand why everyone went out to see them. While we were waiting for people to come back from duck looking, that Teralyn got ‘cited ‘cause she got an e-mail from that Roy guy and he’s going to come visit us next week! Then we started talking about our out-to-eat writing this week at P.F. Chang’s, which I’m ‘cited for ‘cause I never eated there before. I am ‘specially excited about the wall of chocolate that Tim was talking about! Yummy! That Meg, who sort of took Mrs.’s place when she had to leave, reminded us to get our first creative piece turned in today and not to forget.That Meg also reminded us not forget to turn in our “This I Believe” or “Teacher Metaphor” by Wednesday. I like it when people remind me about stuff, ‘cause I forget things sometimes. Like the time I forgot to change out of my pink fuzzy flip-flop slippers before leaving for school. I do that sometimes. I get embarrassed when I do that. That Meg also said to pick the ones we have the most connection to ‘cause our voices will come through real strong when we’re connected like that. I guess that Meg means we can hear our voices real good without yelling. That’s good, ‘cause yelling hurts my ears. After that, Erin got to read to us from her book //Snowflower and the Secret Fan// by Lisa See//.// The story takes place in China a very long time ago, I think. Those poor girls had to have their feet binded and it hurt real bad. I didn’t like hearing about that. Erin likes the book because she gets to learn about Chinese culture, but I don’t think she liked that part very much either. I’m glad I didn’t have to get my feet binded. We got to eat lunch after that. After lunch, that Teralyn got to tell us about Socratic Seminar. Four of my friends got to sit in the middle, but guess what? There were five chairs. That Teralyn called the empty seat the “hot seat,” and that Meg really liked that seat, ‘cause she kept sitting in it. But that was okay, ‘cause no one else but Rhonda wanted to sit there anyway. That Teralyn wasn’t s’posed to talk during the Socratic Seminar, but she did anyway. She said she couldn’t help it. I believe her. That Teralyn sure likes to talk! Jeff Roper came in while we were doing that circle thing, but he didn’t do much. He was nice and friendly, though. When the circle thing was finished, that Sandy got to talk to us about telling stories and writing down story ideas that go with our different feelings. We have lots of feelings, apparently, ‘cause guess what? That Sandy wrote about zillion different ones! I knew just what to write down under “Embarrassed,” ‘cause I already told you about my pink slippers. After Sandy’s storytelling, that Meg told us we could use the rest of our time to work on polishing our pieces. I think she wants them to shine or something. I have a lot of polishing left to do, I think.

New Old Town by Nancy Sturm

Wandering down the cobblestone streets of Wichita’s Old Town, I marvel at the newness of it. Old, formerly unsightly brick  warehouses have morphed into the new, trendy place to be. The warehouses, formerly homes to industry, now house apartments, office spaces, fashionable restaurants, upscale gift shops, and one-of-a-kind shops like “Old Town Cigars.” But it’s not the new that beckons me today. It’s the old Wichita, before the warehouses were built that calls to my spirit this morning. A mere two miles west from where I lounge on my fashionable new Old Town bench, traffic hums along Broadway, a major hub in this city of 350,000 and its east/west dividing line. Not too many years back, just over 100 hundred years ago, Broadway, or state highway #81, was a dirt pathway beaten hard by the hooves of millions of cattle. Trampled on for years by so many hooves, nothing grew there anymore. No seed could take root and sprout on this cattle highway. Wichita began as a mere stop along the way of the big cattle drives. Horse-mounted cowboys, coated in the dirt kicked up by so many hooves, prodded the cattle, keeping them on their pathway from the ranches of Texas to the railways of Kansas City. Little did the cattle know as they plodded one weary mile after another, that they were heading down the road to becoming steaks in some family’s dining room. But I digress. Along the cattle super highway, the drovers needed a place to rest their weary bones. They needed a place for a drink, a shower, and perhaps a woman to relieve the hard work and tedium of the cattle drive. Thus, Wichita was born. The place where two rivers meet, with ample water to quench the cattle’s thirst, began as a rough and tumble cattle town. As I sit here in the shade, relishing the cool breeze, I enjoy the newness of Old Town and marvel at its history.

Nancy's Niche by Nancy Sturm A welcome respite from the muggy day, Nancy’s Niche loomed as an oasis from the Kansas summer’s heat. The heat and humidity at 10:30 am made the forecaster’s 100 degree prediction seem likely. Once inside the store, the cool air beckoned us to linger awhile. Crammed with a myriad of crafty items and old-fashioned trinkets, the shop invited us to wander and window shop in its cool environment. Scores of ribbons, colored paper, delicate silver chains and lockets attracted the crafty. Trendy purses and tops appealed to more modern tastes. The saying on a lovely wall hanging captured my eye: “Become the butterfly. Get out of the cocoon and fly.” Isn’t that what The National Writing Project is all about? Don’t be complacent. Don’t settle for ordinary or average. Take a risk. Experiment with words. Discover how truly beautiful and unique you are. As teachers, isn’t this how we want to inspire our students? Giving them knowledge, the ability to think for themselves, and an awareness of their varied talents awakens them from their slumber in the cocoon of mediocrity. A gifted teacher has the ability to enable her students to open the cocoon, unfurl their wings, and fly. With a little guidance they open their uniquely patterned and brilliantly colored wings, rising to heights the caterpillar could never have imagined.

Paper Due! by Nancy Sturm

One Student’s Reality:

11:00 p. m.: “Hey sweetie! Just called to say g’nite! Whacha doin’?

“Paper, what paper?...Oh, English. Crap! I forgot!

“What’ it ‘posed to be about?...Uh huh…that story we read last week? Uh, I kinda remember it.

“Gotta go? Okay, goodnight sweetie. Bye!”

Ugh! I have to write a paper for English! Boring! Due tomorrow. Let’s see…. I need the thesaurus. Teachers always like those big words. And make sure spell check and grammar check are on, ‘cause I sure can’t spell or use commas right. She wants the author’s name. Falkner isn’t it? Yeah, Falkner, James Falkner. That’s it. Now, type, type, type. I need 500 words. Okay, how many words do I have? Only 350 words? Man, I can’t think of anything else….okay…a little padding here, another big word there. Oh, yeah, I need a conclusion. So, cut and paste from my introduction and there! I have it! 502 words!

I wonder if she’ll give me extra credit for the extra two words?

One Teacher’s Dream:

When you write, all I want is a piece of your heart and soul. In a well-reasoned, thoughtful manner, share your passions. Use paragraphs and sentences that walk my feeble brain from one idea to another. Give me enough detail to help me see the images in your mind. Inform me. Entertain me. Make me laugh Make me cry. Use words and phrases that sing. Let me hear the rhythm of your soul. That’s all I want. Nothing more.

A Lifetime Gift by Nancy Sturm

“Shh! Be quiet. They’ll hear us!” My older brother Bob glared at Rick and me. We swallowed our giggles and crept downstairs as quietly as we could, praying the steps wouldn’t squeak. Even though it was dark and our parents and our oldest brother were still asleep, we couldn’t wait any longer. We knew magic had come during the night. We couldn’t wait to peek under the Christmas tree to see what Santa had brought. We weren’t disappointed. New, brightly wrapped red and green packages had appeared under the tree since we had reluctantly climbed into bed only a few hours ago. The once-full plate of homemade cookies now held just crumbs, and only a few drops of milk remained in the bottom of the glass. A neatly printed note rested next to the empty plate. “Thank you for the delicious cookies. Merry Christmas!” He came! He really came, and he liked the cookies we left. Nearly beside ourselves with joy, we looked at the Christmas bounty in the pre-dawn gray light. “Shh!” we whispered to one another as we picked up and shook the packages. When we squeezed those gifts, we imagined the treasures hidden just beneath the crinkling paper. Among the wrapped gifts lay a small pivot pool game, about three feet long. Unwrapped! What joy! Throwing caution to the wind, we set up the pool balls and hit them with the pivot cue. “Crack,” resounded as ball hit ball. When the balls fell into the pocket, they landed with loud “thunks.” Amazingly, our parents didn’t come downstairs and scold us to hurry back to bed. After a few games of pivot pool, we knew we’d pressed our luck and reluctantly tiptoed upstairs to our bedrooms. Waiting for Ron and our parents to wake up seemed to take an eternity. Would they sleep a whole week? At last they came out of their rooms, robes and smiles on. We ran down the stairs this time, laughing and shouting. Finally we could open our presents. While we ripped paper and played with new toys, I became vaguely aware of Christmas music playing: “Joy to the World” and “Jingle Bells” filled the living room. I dimly noticed a “Merry Christmas” sign hung across the room while happily ripping through holiday paper. It didn’t take long before we’d covered the living room floor with torn wrapping paper, toys, and clothes. After all the gifts had been opened and we’d played with the new toys, Bob suddenly shouted, “Hey, what’s this?” We all turned to look where he pointed and saw the source of the Christmas carols. There, in plain sight, sat a beautiful hifi. Out of it flowed our Christmas music! Strung across the front of it was the “Merry Christmas” sign we’d noticed earlier. We all chattered at once, amazed that we hadn’t seen it before! The console of the hifi stretched four feet across the living room and stood three and a half feet high. Its dark, highly polished wood glowed with a golden undertone, reflecting the twinkling lights from our Christmas tree.

We received the family gift of the hifi over fifty years ago, yet I remember it as if it were yesterday. Within a year the pivot pool had broken, and I can’t recall any of the other gifts I received. What I remember is the hifi. We moved many times after receiving that special Christmas gift, but no matter where we lived the hifi stood in its place of honor in the living room. Woe to the child who dared smear his or her fingerprints on our beautiful hifi! Year after year, wonderful music poured from this amazing gift. First Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Johnny Mathis sang in our living room. Dad became the master disc jockey in our home, always playing tunes everyone could enjoy. Purchasing a gift for Dad became an easy task; music was his love. The only difficulty was finding ways to wrap his gift to disguise a long playing record. He lovingly played the tunes and kept the hifi polished, its beautiful dark wood glowing. Wherever we lived, many special memories revolved around the hifi and the music it played. For a time we lived across the street from a grade school. Just before Christmas, Dad placed the hifi’s speakers in the living room windows, facing the street. He turned the volume up full blast and waited, as excited as a child. As soon as the school bell rang and the children walked past, he punched the “on” button. Loud strains of “Here Comes Santa Claus” startled and delighted the children as they walked home, causing them to burst into excited grins! I’m not sure whose smiles stretched wider, theirs or Dad’s. When we were teenagers the hifi was instrumental in waking us for Saturday chores. Dad, an early riser, waited patiently for his slumbering teens to rouse themselves. When he could wait no longer, he put the needle on the record and set the volume up high. Strains of “The William Tell Overture” awakened us, calling us to our tasks! Throughout the years that beautiful piece of furniture and its lovely music wove itself into the fabric of our memories. As time passed the music changed. Herb Alpert, Ray Conniff, and modern jazz music permeated our lives. We moved. We changed. We grew up. But the music from the hifi became a constant in our lives. Everything changed, yet nothing changed. I married and had three children. The music became part of my children’s memories. They loved the hifi and the music it played at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. One day Mom and Dad watched my young children while I ran errands. When I returned to their home, I opened the door to “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing” playing loudly on the hifi. When the next part blared, “do wop do wop do wop do wop do wahh,” Dad and all three children gyrated crazily, dancing around the room, then collapsed on the floor in fits of laughter. Later I found they had been doing this for hours! As time continued its inevitable changes, audio tapes and cds replaced vinyl records. The turntable on the old hifi still worked, but new technology provided better sound. Dad gave the hifi to my daughter, who cherishes it still. Still Dad remained the master disc jockey, recording music for his children and grandchildren who play it today, but the beautiful hifi had finally outlived its usefulness. More than fifty years after we received our musical Christmas gift, Mom is gone, and Dad has left us too; the master disc jockey no longer plays his tunes. But the gift remains after all these years. We still play his songs. The beat goes on… the beautiful gift of music lives in our lives and our hearts.

Refilling my Spirit by Meg Rice

Above the circular pathway of pink bricks below, my crispy sunburned neck cools against craggy brown bark from one of three major limbs cradling me aloft. Leaning into the upward reaching branch, a blueberry parfait Kansas sky invites my eyes to wander amongst the cloud layers. Today, thin strands ribbon the blue sky-curtain beyond my tree, as if sparingly cut from a meager bolt of lace. Patches of lace vary in length and width, but the blue cannot be silenced as it shouts a persistent presence. Rotating my eyes downward to meet my knuckle as it brushes against rougher bark, I focus on a hand-built restraining rail, meant to prevent a fall from this lofty nest. Fashioned from smaller grape-vine-limbs, nailed and lashed into a protective cage, I note their shagginess contrasting with smoothly milled-boards supporting me in this nested intersection of branches. Eyes closed against green light glinting through leaves, my ears take over to delight in their clacking rhythms as the wind dances them around on undulating branches. Hairs tickle a path across my face in a parallel dance, choreographed for wind, leaves and strands. This breeze, mild by Kansas standards, would illicit cries of “storm’s a brewing and she’s gonna’ blow” from residents of the east coast. Cooling parched skin, breezy puffs carry floral scents from above and below. Dr. Bartlett’s Arboretum bursts forth sweet and musky perfumes, blossoms in boastful bright hues or shy pastels and chocolate shades of earthy spring soil. Pungent lilac coats my tongue from tip to back of throat, overwhelming with thick sweetness. It does not subside until shifting breezes rinse the air with less intense bouquets of dogwood, cherry blossom and iris. After a refreshing nap and jotting sensory impressions into my journal, I regrettably descend the ladder to bid the tree-house adieu. I silently wonder if the permanent residents of this sacred place ever become desensitized to this arboretum’s charms. I can’t imagine it possible, as this place of air and earth fills my spirit with its goodness each time I come and stay for a day.

Prayers for Emily by Meg Rice

Sunday Morning, six forty-five a.m., ready for church. Last swig of coffee, grab car keys and head out the door.

Back in the kitchen, the phone rings. That can’t be good. Who would be calling this early on a Sunday morning?

Hope mom’s okay. Grab it, quick, before the second ring! What? Car crash last night? Ejected and airlifted to Wesley!

Severe head trauma, Comatose, Prognosis - not good. Oh God, Please, Not Emily! Not my Emily!

Need to go hug her parents. Pray and wait, pray for a miracle. Can’t sing for church, not today!

Sitting. Waiting. Wanting to know. Not wanting to know. Praying, hoping, Daring to hope.

Doing the final test now. Is her heart still beating, safeguarding her organs? Or did it stop, denying her final gifts to strangers?

Anxious family and friends Search out hospital chapel. Hearts, heavy with hope, pray her through the last test. Heartbeats echo on sterile walls, as elevator descends.

Family parades silently Through chapel doors, Some light candles, Some pray up front. The time comes to go back upstairs.

Now, a family waiting room, more prayers, more waiting. Her mom speaks first, “She’s gone”. “Now they will harvest.”

Long silent hugs. Tears and more tears. Phone calls and prayers. Words attempt comfort. Reality sets in hard and cold.

Family grieves. Friends grieve. Teachers grieve. Two church families grieve. Two churches fill to capacity to say goodbye.

Emily loved everyone. Everyone loved Emily. She saw each person as a child of God and treated us as such. We saw Jesus in her.

Dearly loved are spirited souls like Emily who make life better for all who know her. Dearly will we miss her songs and laughter, hugs and sweet listening eyes, and her welcoming, encouraging words.

Grateful are our hearts that we were blessed to know her. Grateful to her family that they generously shared her. Grateful to our God that He sent her to us to love.

Riding the Mamba By Sandy Foster Sweaty palms and a stomach in knots should have been my first warning that this decision might truly be the rashest one I had ever made in my life. What was I thinkin’? I closed my eyes in dread and my knees shook as I heard the screams of terror in the distance. People surrounded me on all sides, and I could see their lips move, their open-mouthed smiles which should have brought the sounds of their laughter, but I heard none of their conversations, none of that laughter - only the terrorizing screams getting closer and closer. I stood on the platform, unable to step away from the situation in which I now found myself. The rapid clack-clack-clack-clack of metal on metal began to slow and grow louder and louder until the open train of cars came to a complete rest in front of me. The cars emptied from the opposite side, and I wanted to follow that crowd right on out the other side, but was blocked from doing so by the people in front of me. Over the loud speaker rang the voice of trepidation, directing us to climb into the nearest cars, and like lemmings to their deaths, I put one foot in front of the other, hearing nothing but the pounding of my heart, and followed the crowd. The day was cool, yet my shirt clung to my back, and my clammy hands gripped the hard metal bar in front of me. I felt it latch into place across my lap and took several deep breaths to calm my racing heart. Slowly the train began to move out from under the protective overhang and into the warm sunshine. I looked to my side and could see midget-sized people far below me on the ground going about their ways, sometimes glancing up toward this train and pointing, as if in warning: we’ll never see those people again. Clack-clack-clack-clack, faster and faster, higher. I could see the parking lot on the far side of the park and everything in between from here. The train track sprawled out in front of us, rolling gently to the side and circling lazily around this end of the park. Other tracks poked their steel beams up in the distance, and the tall skyscraper tower of the Fly Ride was just below us. This doesn’t look so bad, I thought. But now I was on my back, looking straight up at the cloudy sky, and the clack-clack-clack had slowed to a near stop. With a death grip on the bar and my throat closing in near panic, my heart seemed to pick up speed with a rhythm equal to the quickening wheels on the track. Earlier, when viewing this track from a distance, this first drop had seemed the worst, so if I lived through it, surely I would enjoy the rest of this trip. With a sudden jolt, we were moving again, a dramatic drop so fast my stomach surfaced to near throat level and threatened to choke the very life out of me. Laughter and screams of joy and screams of panic filled the air. My car partner yelled something, throwing her hands into the air with an abandonment and sense of freedom elusive to me. My grip tightened on the bar as my throat tightened with anxiety. No sooner had we reached the bottom of that first steep pitch and I mentally relaxed in the mistaken belief that first drop was the worst of the ride, when suddenly I found myself tilting sideways and speeding over the heads of onlookers far below at seventy-five miles per hour. This speed on a freeway seems benign, but in this open car on this metal track whizzing far above the ground, twisting and turning from left to right and then circling back again, I silently prayed for deliverance from this metallic deathtrap. With eyes tightly closed against the view speeding past with a velocity that defies human reason, I felt my jaw clenching as forcefully as my fingers, nor did they relax until the clack-clack-clack of the wheels became more pronounced with the slowing of the ride. Finally, pulling into the station after what seemed an eternity but in actuality had lasted less than three minutes, I felt my stomach drop back to its normal position no longer choking my throat, my jaws unclench, and my body decompress. Climbing out of the seat and onto terra firma, I pushed toward the exit with my students close behind. “Oh, that was awesome! We need to do that again!” said Stonie. “Mrs. Foster, you were funny. You screamed the whole way!”

please post picture of Meg's writing prompt here...man walking across the bridge.

Black and White Picture On a Bridge By Karen Whaley Where are you going? Love your hat. Are you watching a bird or something in the sky? Don’t fall off the bridge! It looks like you are too high up to survive a fall. Perhaps a slight injury would be all. You look so relaxed and comfortable where you are. I want to make up your story since I don’t know it.I wish I knew your real story. You work very hard all year long and vacation time you escape to the mountains in Vermont or Colorado. You love to hike and ski but right now your mind is unwinding from all the stress as you stroll slowly across the bridge. And, your name is Fred. I decided your name is Fred because my best friend has a brother Fred. He works very hard, too. Fred, I wish we could have a real conversation face to face. What would you tell me? I imagine your eyes twinkling with passion for what you are saying. How free you feel looking across God’s country. The air is full of fresh ideas and peace. You can almost taste the healing power in your soul as you are walking. You know that when you return home you will appreciate all that is there because of your time spent breathing in the cure to restore your passion for life. Returning home will you hold your wife tighter? Will you have more time to talk to your son about the connection to the earth and sky? Will you miss another opportunity to tell your son about your strong bond with the Lord? I don’t think so and I believe you will build something between you that will never be broken because of it.Becoming free from the chains binding you to our everyday struggles will allow you to belong in the place you are meant to be. Sorry Fred, I don’t know you at all but these are my impressions of you.

Reflection of Collateral Damage a sculpture by Beth Vannatta by Karen Whaley Viewing the sculpture “Collateral Damage”, by Beth Vannatta, one may assume the artist makes a statement about the death of small children. What personal tragedy has the artist experienced to create such a piece? The newspapers are full of articles about parents killing their infants and small children. Too young to understand why their parents snap, their innocence is entombed forever, collateral damage of the choices parents have made. Did drugs, alcohol, or just too young cause them to break under the responsibility of providing for a completely dependent person? Babies cry. The stress of finances and physical and emotional needs of a child are never even a thought when babies are created from acts of sex, rather than love. Unwanted and resented; how sad their existence. How unfortunate their parents did not have the guts to give them to someone who would love and provide them with the love and care all babies deserve. How unfortunate the cowards extinguished the innocent light. Are the hands holding the child the welcoming arms of God into heaven?

Eric’s Sky By Rhonda Dowty

The watermelon is crisp. I like the crunch. The added sweetness is simply a bonus. The texture is what I want. The juice glides down the back of my throat as I look out of the window of my small sunny kitchen into the back yard. The impatiens plant is pretty in the pot next to the bench. It will never flourish in the shade of that maple tree, but I don’t care. I like it there. No one ever sits on that bench. I feel wistful. It is Eric’s fault. On my way home from the Writeabout, I passed a hitchhiker. It was hot today. The sun blew its scorching breath in small gusts through my open car windows. My air conditioner works. Well, sort of. I just felt like challenging the angry waves of heat rising from the asphalt on the interstate. The hitchhiker trudged with determined steps on the furthest edge of the gravel alongside the road. Trucks and cars whizzed by him on their way to important places, or not so important places. It always happens this way. I saw him too late to consider him. One cannot pull over to think about whether to pick up a traveler and then pull away after determining that it is not the right time. That would be unfair. That would be cruel. I let up on the gas as my car passed him. In my rear view mirror, I watched his progress. His eyes, planted on the gravel, or perhaps the grassy slope that lead to the ditch, never looked up. He did not raise his head as a blast of wind lifted the back of his floppy tan fishing hat, no doubt stinging his calves beneath his walking shorts with its intensity. I pulled off of the highway at the next exit. In a few short miles, I could be home. However, to reason or fuss is invariably a waste of time, so I simply asked, “This one, Lord?” My car idled at the bottom of the exit ramp. No response. Perhaps I was not truly listening. He usually speaks softly, and I often become impatient. A car approaching my bumper forced a decision. I continued across the street, like a homing pigeon, navigating into the flow of traffic. The image of the man’s khaki clothing and hiking boots returned to me. “Should I go back and get him?” Remembering my heartfelt prayer during the time I was in the intensive care unit following a terrible automobile accident, one for which I was responsible, I uttered it again in my heart. “Please allow me to live long enough to raise my children. Let me see them become happy adults.” Guilt had consumed me, then, causing a pain far greater than my injuries. That stop sign appeared from nowhere. I never saw it. Thankfully, the other woman escaped unharmed, but my foolishness hung like an anvil about my neck threatening to drown me in a pool of self-incrimination. Knowing my children’s future wavered precariously in the balance, I begged my Savior to drag me from the pit I had created for myself through my own inattentive irresponsibility. Was I, now, contemplating just another act of irresponsibility? “Is this You or me, Lord?” Although acts of kindness are good, acts of kindness directed by God are merely obedience. The next exit sucked me down and quickly spit me up again speeding back the direction from which I had come. I waited for him at the entrance ramp. If my calculations were correct, he would be there in a matter of minutes. He ambled along at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor dragging his feet. The brim of his hat shaded his face until it met the ridiculous dirty blonde beard that curled up toward his lips. His long tangled hair crawled past his collar. I swallowed a tiny fear bubble. Getting out of my car, I met him on the ramp. He did not seem surprised. Reasoning that he might get a ride easier at the truck stop a few miles up ahead, I offer him a lift. He grinned, dropped his huge, equally tan-colored, duffle bag into my trunk and compressed himself into my tiny front seat. He was the same nondescript light brownish color from head to foot - except for his eyes. They, too, were brown, but they sparkled a shockingly beautiful dark chocolate hue, with long thick black eyelashes framing their startling depths. The air conditioner struggled to whisper chilly puffs into the sweltering car. He appeared to be smothering a smile as I fumbled with the controls and apologized for its lack of effectiveness. He thanked me for the ride and remarked upon the unlikeliest of a “pretty girl” picking him up. I told him that I had a big protector. He knew immediately whom I meant and nodded, “Yea, everyone’s protector, but good karma’s not bad, either.” “You mean what goes around, comes around?” I asked. “Mmm hmm…” His slightly veiled grin returned. He told me that he was headed for California, but his trek originated in Florida. He had wrecked his motorcycle. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I sympathized. “I’m not! I got $2,600.00 for it.” This time he chucked aloud. Things are not always as they seem. About that time he spotted a McDonalds. “Would you mind dropping me there?" he asked. “I can usually catch some free Wi-Fi.” This time I laughed. His name is Eric. We shook hands as he unfolded his long legs from my cramped passenger seat. I think I’ll sit on that bench tonight. I‘ll sit on that bench and share Eric’s sky. Perhaps the stars will twinkle like his eyes.

The Deliverance of Dissatisfied Darrell by Rhonda Dowty Darrell lived in Manhattan. He slaved day in and day out, juggling other people’s money, buying and selling stocks, gauging the market and spending his daylight hours in a flurry of activity. Exhausting days left him desirous of languid nights. However, saddled with a fiery red-headed beauty for a girlfriend, Darrell drug his work-weary bones to a multitude of bars and clubs every night, to keep his feisty beauty from dancing with the other ravenous dogs. One night, while watching the smoke curl up from an ashtray two tables away, Darrell noticed a single, seemingly undisturbed, wrinkled old man drinking milk from a shot glass. Was it milk? Surely not. Where was Shirley? He thought, as he shook his head. Again, his gaze returned to the figure of John Wayne with his gnarly beard and his legs crossed at the ankles, relaxed, leaning back in his chair, practically asleep. Did he have one or two gold teeth? The lateness of the hour fell heavy upon him. He gathered his hat and his cell phone from the bar and turned to scan the hazy atmosphere for Shirley. The sounds of the city streets rose to Darrell’s fourth floor apartment, wafting into his slightly open window, bringing the scents and smells of Dolores’s coffee shop on the corner and the leftover acrid tinge of sauerkraut something – probably from Mrs. Volutia’s third floor apartment directly beneath him. The faint light of morning aggressively forced its way past his blinds that tapped in a Chinese water torture fashion against the windowsill with the slightest breeze. Darrell slumped back onto the mattress and sighed. The image of a shot glass of milk and a pair of dusty cowboy boots flashed through his murky despondency. The telephone rang. Darrell did not stir. He winced as the answering machine beeped and his own monotone message suspended in the air, each sound from his words seemed to hover momentarily until it dropped with a dull thud onto the brown carpet. Darrell looked at the floor, half-expecting to see his words lying in a tangled pile. It was Shirley. Her sultry voice demanded that he pick her up thirty minutes later than they had arranged previously. He frowned, allowing his mind to wander; he contemplated the lack of food in the refrigerator. Darrell exited his apartment building exactly thirty-seven minutes later. The door attendant smiled with his usual polite disinterest, the corners of his slightly drawn mouth scarcely twitching upward. Darrell nodded in return. He shuffled to his normal subway entrance, but at his gaze fell upon the first step of the stairwell to the underground train, Darrell spied a pair of dusty, worn boots. He hesitated only a second and then abruptly turned continuing past the entrance. The bustle of rushing morning humanity blurred his vision. A myriad of colors blended as bodies with jackets, bags, briefcases, and clothing of various colors rushed past making his brain spin. His steps quickened. At almost a trot, he hustled past a newsstand. Bright yellow bananas rested on the counter next to a half dozen ink-smudged, folded newspapers. Darrell stumbled to a halt, calmly returned to the stand, purchased two bananas, then spiraled back into the stream of foot traffic on the hard, grey sidewalk. Three hours and two bananas later, Darrell stepped off a dirty Greyhound bus onto the barren main street of the small town of his youth. He ambled down the deserted road until he reached Dameron Mercantile where he stopped to look at a pair of cowboy boots in the front display window. Darrell smiled. He wondered if they had any milk.

The Red Velvet Box by Rhonda Dowty The pieces were small. It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to fit them all back together. She gathered them from the floor and piled them into a tiny heap upon the pillow, next to the damp spot left by her tears. She sat back to contemplate. Whatever should she do with them now? She picked up one particularly sparkly one. She remembered the time this one began to shine. It had been unknowing then, but after that warm summer night, when the moon danced upon the pond, a cool gentle breeze sang among the branches of the trees in the maple grove, and the honeysuckle released its sweet fragrance into the evening air, it had taken on a special sheen, a glow and a new intensity. Slowly it began to know. It blossomed like the velvet roses in the garden. She touched her lips. His kiss had ignited a fire that inflamed this small portion of her heart. She held the delicate shard, the sliver of a cherished first kiss. She cradled it in her hand, as if trying to protect it. Too late. Sometimes you cannot go back. Her tears were gone now. She sadly watched the pulsating rays of beauty start to dim in the precious little portion of the broken whole. She carefully placed it into the red velvet box, the one that matched the roses in the garden. She lifted the rest in one gentle scoop and let them trickle back onto the pillow. She watched them slip through her fingers like the sands of time, each one representing something they had shared. There was the night at the carnival when their eyes locked, following one another up and down on the carousel. She recalled the way his gaze could pull her into his embrace from across any distance. She placed that piece into the velvet box, as well. As her fingers created a trail through the remaining miniature gems on the ivory linen, her memory took her to the river. A hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth as she relived the raft ride that left them dripping and laughing together. Together. Not anymore. She gathered the rest of the pieces, held them for a time, and then sprinkled her broken heart into the box like the handful of earth she had released above his casket after they lowered him into the grave.

Please add picture Collateral Damage by Beth Vannetta

Reflection of Collateral Damage a sculpture by Beth Vannatta Viewing the sculpture “Collateral Damage”, by Beth Vannatta, one may assume the artist makes a statement about the death of small children. What personal tragedy has the artist experienced to create such a piece? The newspapers are full of articles about parents killing their infants and small children. Too young to understand why their parents snap, their innocence is entombed forever, collateral damage of the choices parents have made. Did drugs, alcohol, or just too young cause them to break under the responsibility of providing for a completely dependent person? Babies cry. The stress of finances and physical and emotional needs of a child are never even a thought when babies are created from acts of sex, rather than love. Unwanted and resented; how sad their existence. How unfortunate their parents did not have the guts to give them to someone who would love and provide them with the love and care all babies deserve. How unfortunate the cowards extinguished the innocent light. Are the hands holding the child the welcoming arms of God into heaven?

Life and Death by Karen Whaley I chose the title Life and death because I believe it is human for us to fear death.Most of us think of death as something bad but it's not. It is the end of our life cycle. The pain of losing someone you love is directly related to how much and in what way you love the person. Losing a parent or grandparent that has been ill, is bittersweet. You no longer have to watch them suffer the illness or the natural pain from aging. Fortunate ones go to sleep and never wake up with pain and suffering. Losing someone that has led a full life is many times easier than losing someone young, strong, and vital. The stronger the relationship with the person you lose, the greater the pain of loss. My son died in a car accident eight years ago and there are times I still feel like it was yesterday. I talked to him before he was born. I talked to him every day as an infant, child, and young man. After he moved into his own home, I had to talk to him at least once a week.He shared his life with me by telling me his stories. After he died people tried to tell me his stories but I knew them all. It wasn't until then that people in our community actually knew how much a part of me he was.In many ways he still is. He is here when I need him, which many will think is crazy but it's not. I hear him warning me about his siblings. He tells me what to say and when to keep my mouth shut so they will listen. Because of this, my relationships with my other children are stronger. I think if people would open their minds and hearts they will hear the voices of the people they have lost.Sometimes it's just a feeling but other times it's as clear as when someone sitting next to you whispers in your ear. My faith comes from my grandmother. She always said, "The Good Lord will take care of it." Whenever times were tough or something terrible happened, she would say this or something like it. Most often it was exactly this statement.Watching her pass into heaven was said to be a gift to her by the nurse in the hospital room. I believe I got the most out of those hours.My brother drove us to the Heart Hospital on Webb Road.After we were there a few hours he had to return home due to family needs. He planned on returning later that day. I noticed the fluids bags had not changed so I told him I would get a ride or ride home with him later.He had been gone about an hour when the nurse asked me to leave the room for a few minutes. I am still not sure why but I did.Sitting in the waiting room I heard the little voice. I knew it was time to go back to her hospital room. One nurse said to another, "OH! Here she comes."I walked into the room where my grandmother lying in bed had become agitated. The nurse tried to explain what was happening. I told her, "I know." I told my grandmother everything was going to be ok to lay back and relax. I caressed her arm while holding her hand. It had already started to get cold though she was still here. The nurse was very nervous wondering more what I was going to do while still trying to explain what was happening. I again said, "I know." She just looked at me and I looked at her. I was on the right side of my grandmother and the nurse was on the left by the window. My grandmother turned her head and was not looking at me nor the nurse but at someone next to the nurse that I could not see. I watched as she took her last conscious breath. I stayed while the body's natural reflex breathing finished. The nurse told me she was gone. I said, "I know, she's been gone about five minutes.” She had to leave the room. I stayed a few minutes. I told myself since she was on her way to heaven I might as well go make phone calls to family members. As I was leaving I thanked the nurses for taking care of my grandmother. Because I was there and witnessed the end of my grandmother's physical life and begin her spiritual one, I do not fear death. I am not in any hurry to leave my family here but the fear of death is gone. Come to think about it, I can't remember the last time I was afraid. Because the pain of each loss is different, the grieving process while the same is different. Grief is personal and only between the two people. I am very selfish with my feelings for my son. No one knows how I feel the loss of my son because even if I did try to tell them they would never know it. There are no words. I live my life in such a way as he would be proud of me and the things I have and will accomplish. I know that my mission in life is still happening because I am still here.